


Upon a Makeshift Stage

by zinjadu



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Firefly
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 16:22:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>River dances and Spike remembers.  Written a while ago, rehosting here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon a Makeshift Stage

She dances. Her feet are bare on the hard, cold metal of the ship, the grated metal that should not be trod barefoot upon, but she does not mind. She likes the feel of the ship beneath her feet, and he can see it. He can see in the way she closes her eyes to really feel it. Feel every jagged edge poking up and pinching through calluses, every gap in the grating, a great emptiness yawning between the metal. Her arms stretch out, to catch something he cannot see. And he watches as she twirls, hair and dress fanning out to a rhythm he cannot hear.

All too soon she stops, the dance finished. Her arms come to rest at her sides and she opens her eyes. Dark brown eyes, fix on him. There is no accusation in those eyes. He thinks she knows.

“I do know,” she answers, voice soft but managing to carry all the way up to his perch. “And I don’t mind. I don’t often have an audience, and you are very quiet. It’s nice of you.”

He smirks. “Well, little bird, I suppose I should go on being nice, then. Have a thing against letting ladies down.” He jumps down from the railing, landing lightly on the corrugated metal below, in spite of his heavy combat boots. This close and he can smell her distinctly. Clean, like fresh laundry, with a bit of blood around the edges. All the interesting women have a bit of blood around the edges, he reflects. It does not surprise him.

“You think I’m like her. Both of them.” She tilts her head to the side to get a better look at him, though she can see him just fine. “I am. In parts, bits and pieces. Mushed together and spat back out. Does it hurt? I can’t tell, you’re very, very quiet.”

“Had a long time to get this quiet, pet. Long time. And it does hurt, a bit. Not very much. It all happened ages ago.”

“Yes, it did.” Her brow furrows. She never tried to listen to someone before, they just projected all the time, but he kept things close and it’s hard to hear him. She strains and finds what she’s looking for. “But,” she reaches out to touch his bleached hair with the tips of her fingers, “you still do this.”

He takes her hand away from his hair, gentle but firm, and places it back at her side. “People do a lot of things, after the reason to do them is gone. I’m not much different.”

“No. And yes.” She cannot help but be curious about him. He had stepped onto the ship at sundown, asking for passage just as they were making ready to leave planetside, with more than enough money to pay for passage and no questions asked. It had made the captain a bit nervous, especially with the Alliance breathing down on them so hard. Searching and prying and relentless.

They fought a war on the run and out of cash more often than not.

But this man had showed up, black trench coat draped around him like a security blanket, and showed them more money than they’d seen in a year. The captain had to accept. They had to eat. Serenity had to have fuel.

She had been ordered to stay to her room or the bridge. Or at least stay out of the passenger’s sight, not to let him get a good look at her. But she knew he meant no harm. He just had problems getting from place to place. No one believed a man with that much money would be in the Outer Rim for any good reason.

So she reaches out with her mind, listening harder than she ever has before. Or maybe just listening, because most of the time she tries to keep things out, not invite them in.

“Oh,” he whispers. His eyebrows arch. “So that’s what you’re after, then.” He grins, sharp like a wolf, but soft around the edges. “You could’ve just asked, pet.”

He breathes out, like he’s letting something go, and over six hundred years of love, war, death, angst, terror, lust, and joy assaults her mind. It’s all jumbled at first, flickering images and sounds and feelings everywhere. A small blond woman at fifty, going down fighting. She loves this woman, this goddess, and it’s so intense it burns her. A dark haired gothic beauty swaying melodically underneath a star lit sky. She loved this woman once, and a part of her always will, the one who made her what she is today. A dark haired man with a beating heart and a surprised look on his face. She does not know if she hates this man or loves him, but she does admire him. Face after face after face. And she knows that they are all dead. Long gone and turned to dust on Earth-That-Was.

She breathes heavily, but stands her ground only to find herself sitting with him sitting in front of her. Not touching, but close enough to feel the electromagnetic field his body generates and to feel that it doesn’t produce heat.

“You were shamed,” she croaks, looking up at him from behind a curtain of hair.

His eyes flash gold, and for a second she wonders if she said the wrong thing again, after prying around in someone’s mind. But they stay blue, and crinkle around the edges. The emotions are ones she cannot name, they are in between amusement and anger and a pain so old it is more a friend than anything else.

“More than once,” he tells her.

“You let them, sometimes. You let them do things to you.” She tilts her head, a tangle of hair falling over her shoulder. “Why?”

He looks surprised that she even asks, having seen the highlights of his memory. “For love, pet.”

“I don’t understand. If they loved you...”

“Oh, I never said that. I loved them. Knew that as sure as anything else. If they ever loved me, well, that was their own business and they didn’t care to let me know. Most of the time.” He smirks, self-deprecating.

She thinks of her brother, of the mechanic, of the captain, of the companion, of a husband and wife parted too soon, and the Shepard. Serenity herself. And even the mercenary. Because somewhere underneath and junkyard dog exterior was a son who still sent money home for his sick brother. Love. Love is. Unquantifiable. It gives her problems. It is not like existence itself, it is far more intangible than the nature of the mind. Every one has a different way of thinking of it, no one feels love in the exact same way as they all feel a bullet in the leg. She doesn’t understand where it comes from or how it forms or why it even happens at all.

But she can feel it all the same. And she knows that the thought of not doing something for those she loves makes her sick.

“How can we feel what we cannot define? It poses a problem.”

“No one ever said love was easy.”

She blinks. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty damn sure. And anyone who did say that is a bleeding moron.” He snorts, laughing to himself.

“It’s late, pet, you better get some sleep. I get the feeling your captain didn’t want me getting to close to you.” He stands, stretches and leaves, heading for the passenger berths.

“It is only problematic, I think, because you do not wish it to be easy.” She nods, satisfied with her response and knowing that he does not want to hear it, and she found a way to say it anyway.

Then she sleeps and dreams of a golden woman, a dark beauty and a hundred more people who were loved. And they all danced with the scent of blood around them.


End file.
